


Complications

by theoxlove



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Cross-Posted on Wattpad, Drug Addiction, Enemies to Lovers, Ensemble Cast, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Healers, Love/Hate, M/M, POV Daphne Greengrass, POV Hermione Granger, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Slow Burn, St Mungo's Hospital, Substance Abuse, Support Groups, no ron bashing, very vaguely inspired by Grey's Anatomy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:08:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29249295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoxlove/pseuds/theoxlove
Summary: "You don’t have to choose between the devil and the deep blue sea, you can swim to shore, and I promise you that I’ll be there waiting."In the years following the war, the staff at St-Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Emergencies are forced to come face to face with their trauma, bringing some closer together, and pulling others apart.Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger have yet to put their Hogwarts rivalry and differences aside. What happens when they are asked to attend the same support group?Healer AU. Ensemble Cast.
Relationships: Daphne Greengrass/Bill Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Kudos: 9





	1. Continuum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Substance abuse, implied overdose, dark thoughts

_**Prologue** _

* * *

_Continuum_

_1:_ _a coherent whole characterized as a collection, sequence, or progression of values or elements varying by minute degrees_

_2: the set of real numbers including both the rationals and the irrationals_

* * *

In Wales, a woman wakes up, enveloped by the solitude of her expansive home. Her thoughts accompany her as she drifts along her cold marble floors. The first rays of sun poking through the bow windows paint her skin in various shades of gold and yellows, and reflect on the silk of her lustrous nightdress. 

Not a sound can be heard for miles. The silence is deafening. Only the faint echo of her steps reverberate across the walls steeped in the memories of people long lost. Her mind seeks out the long forgotten sound of her father’s bellowing laugh, or her mother’s quiet humming. She closes her eyes for a moment, hoping the memories will come to her again, but all she can remember are agonizing screams and dying gasps. 

She thinks of her sister, far away, escaped from a war she was too young to fight, and Daphne Greengrass longs for an escape almost as much as she longs for nothingness. To her, they are almost one and the same, but all she can do is drift, like a house ghost of the Greengrass estate. 

Three loud knocks echo in her entryway, disrupting the carefully maintained stillness of her existence. She almost questions whether the sound is real, or rather a figment of her slowly decaying mind, addled by potions she painstakingly attempts to stave. 

She is faced with a choice. _Answer or ignore._

A moment of fear strikes something deep within her, indecision freezing her into place, anchoring her feet into the ground. Her mind drifts again, the knocks are forgotten. 

What could have been seconds, minutes, hours, or days later in the endless continuum of Daphne’s increasingly cruel world, a fist strikes her door again. Once. Twice. Three Times. She stands in the parlour now, hiding in the shadows cast by dusted furniture that no one occupies. Not even herself. 

She ponders a new choice, _right_ towards the entrance, or _left_ further into the darkness of her home. Before she can make a decision, time slips between her fingers again, only measured by the potions she drinks, and the breaths she takes. She knows those are counted as well. Her fragile memories shatter beneath the weight of her past and the guilt she carries from the war, and soon she can hardly remember her name. Only the aching pain of loss and regret, dulled by mind-altering concoctions. 

Second, minutes, hours, and days melt into each other, imperceptibly different from the next, until time no longer exists. She lives _alone_ , or perhaps _lonely_ , in this continuum. She ponders whether this is another choice she has to make as well. 

Now she can no longer tell the difference between night and day, morning and evening. She forgets what golden afternoon light looks like, or pink morning sunshine. She forgets the blue hue of rainy days, and the striking green of Welsh cliffside fields. She forgets her parents’ names, her sister’s age. She forgets what it feels like to love, to hate, to regret, to hurt, to hope. She forgets the last book she read, or the last time she laughed. She forgets her favourite ice cream flavour, and her least favourite colour. 

When she hears the 7th knock strike her door, and resound across her home, she is finally overtaken by the nothingness she so longed for. And she is faced with one final choice. 

_Life or death._

_Damnation or drowning._

_The Devil or the Deep Blue Sea._


	2. Complacency

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Implied drug use, suicidal thoughts

_ **Week 1** _

* * *

_ Complacency  _

_ 1:  _ _ self-satisfaction especially when accompanied by unawareness of actual dangers or deficiencies _

_ 2: an instance of usually  _ _ unaware _ _ or uninformed self-satisfaction _

* * *

_ Sunday, October 31st, 2004 _

_ St-Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Emergencies  _

_ Cardiac Care Unit _

Complacency feels like a lukewarm cup of tea on a cold Sunday night. Tolerable, but not quite enough to warm you up. It feels comfortable enough that you second guess whether it’s worth putting the kettle on again. You count the steps to your kitchen and wonder if a warmer cup will really change anything to your current predicament. The night is still glacial, and Sunday is still blue. You give in and take a sip, and you go to bed still feeling just as cold as you did before. 

Hermione wonders if complacency is what she’s experiencing with Ron when she’s jolted by the sound of her buzzing wand. The first signs of daylight have hardly begun filtering through her half open curtains. She allows herself to take one deep breath before reaching for her wand. Mere seconds later, the silvery light of a patronus charm illuminates her room, conveying its message. 

_ She’s awake.  _

Hermione spends the next few minutes in a frenzy, reaching for discarded clothes from the night before along her bedroom floor. She finds her discarded identification badge somewhere between her knickers and denims, rushes to slip on the first set of robes she could find, and leaves an unstirring Ron to wake-up to the sound of her apparition. 

She startles a young, eager, and exhausted Rose Zeller upon her arrival at St-Mungo’s. She doesn’t enjoy the eerie silence of an early morning at the Hospital, it reminds her of the aftermath of the war. Endless late nights and early mornings spent roaming these halls, hoping for the recovery of her friend’s and loved ones, mourning the loss of others. It reminds her of a time where she felt powerless and alone. 

She had big plans for her future, for after the war. She had a trajectory, an objective, a predetermined destination that she had set out for herself long before the spoils of war thwarted her objectives. Evidently, these very same plans did not take into consideration the significant time she would spend aimlessly roaming these halls, nor did they imagine she would witness her friends die in a war fought by children. She had imagined a Ministry life for herself, beginning with an entry-level position in the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and ending with becoming the Department Head. 

Instead, one chilly June evening in 1998, she quietly submitted, along with Harry and Ron, an application to St-Mungo’s Hospital - promising each other, and themselves, that they would never stand powerless again while watching another loved one suffer or die. 

“You sent for me, Healer Zeller?” Hermione asked as she regained her senses in the St-Mungo’s staff apparition point where her colleague had waited to greet her. 

“Yes, Healer Granger! Your MI patient is awake,” Rose smiled excitedly. “The damage to the myocardium seems to be fully repaired according to the latest diagnostics, and the patient is lucid - no visible brain damage on scans, and their neurological tests were all successful.” 

“Thank you Healer Zeller. Did you contact Healer Willoughby?” Hermione began walking briskly toward the patient room and motioned for Rose to follow suit. She was eager to confirm the recently relayed information. 

“Yes, they’re on their way,” confirmed Rose as they reached the patient room. She held it open for Hermione to walk in and followed her inside. 

“You look awful Healer Granger,” came a soft yet vigorous voice from the hospital bed. “Not enough beauty sleep for the Golden Girl?” 

“I can say the same for you Healer Greengrass. Extended unconscious bed rest does not suit you very well,” Hermioned allowed a small laugh to escape her lips before she set her wand over Daphne’s form and began methodically casting a series of diagnostic charms to confirm her cardiovascular, and neurological health. However, below her stoic and composed exterior, she breathed a sigh of relief. 

Hermione’s friendship with Daphne Greengrass was unexpected to say the least. Built on a shaky foundation of mutual distrust, the first year of their Healer training together was arduous, and plagued with incessantly vigorous competition. They were hardly the only trainee Healers from their time at Hogwarts. In fact, their Hogwarts class yielded the highest number of Healers in St-Mungo’s history. Despite this, their competitiveness rivaled that of Draco and Harry’s Hogwarts years. 

Eighty-hour work weeks, gruelling healing disciplines, and a mutual assertion that they had no intention of pursuing specialities in the same field brought them closer in the latter years of their training. Shared post-war trauma likely contributed as well, but that was something Hermione was unwilling to dwell on. 

“Healer Zeller is correct, I can confirm that there is no lasting damage from your myocardial infarction. I will keep you on a course of heart strengthening potions for the next month, but I believe your heart will make a full recovery. Healer Willoughby will be here to examine brain soon,” Hermione tried her best to tread carefully around the cause of Daphne’s hospitalization. She never was one for tactful words, she was always too clinical, and too methodical. Tactful words were for Neville or Dean, or even Harry when he really tried. 

“I’m happy to see you Daphne,” Hermione placed a comforting hand on her friend’s shoulder, squeezing lightly with her fingers and took a seat on the visitors chair to her right, summoning a Witch Weekly from the adjacent waiting room. Tactful words may not have been for Hermione, but she could certainly do comfort. “Now you  _ know _ how awful I think this magazine is, but you’ve missed October’s most charming smile feature, and I’ve found it to be a most  _ interesting _ read.” 

“Please  _ do  _ tell me more…” 

“For example, did you know Blaise Zabini likes to take his witches on long walks along Cornish beaches on the first date?” Hermione read with mock-intrigue. 

Daphne audibly scoffed. “More like  _ Blaise Zabini likes to shag you once and never owl you again. _ ” Daphne took a moment to ponder her next question, turning it over in her head, until she found the right words to ask. How does someone ask about their ongoing pseudo-relationship with a co-worker after they go missing for weeks, and suddenly awake in a hospital bed? “How is Blaise anyway?” She settled on asking simply. 

“He’s been alright. He visited a few times if you’re wondering, with Parkinson, and Nott,” Hermione shrugged, unsure of where the topic would bring them. 

“And… er… have  _ you _ been alright?” 

“I have - ” Hermione knew, when Daphne interrupted her, that they would now broach the inevitable topic of Daphne’s condition. 

“I am so sorry,” tears welled up in her eyes, swallowed again quickly by Daphne’s unrelenting efforts at maintaining her composed and impenetrable exterior. 

“No. You have nothing to be sorry for. What happened, it wasn’t your fault.” 

“It was exactly my fault, Hermione. I did it to myself, and now I wake up. Salazar knows how many days later to find that I did not, in fact,  _ die  _ like I thought I had, but instead probably put everyone I know in an unbearably difficult situation,” she exhaled a shaky breath, grasping the sides of her bed, prepared to continue her speech. 

“And do you want to know what I’m thinking about? How much I wish there was anything at all that could numb the pain I’m feeling right now. What fucking day is it anyway?” 

“It’s October 31st,” Hermione replied, not knowing how to respond to Daphne’s onslaught of words, and emotion, feeling powerless for the first time in years facing something she cannot control. 

The significance of the date struck them both at once when a third gravely voice carried over from the doorframe. Blaise Zabini’s tall figure leant against it, his arms crossed, and expression painfully tight. He spoke. 

“Happy birthday Daphne.” 

* * *

With a nod to Blaise, Hermione had quickly excused herself from Daphne’s room, leaving her and Blaise alone in the privacy of an unquestionably difficult conversation. The sun had fully taken hold of the day, an unusual sight for the usually gloomy English October. She felt her skin warm a little more each time when walking by every passing ray of sunlight filtering through the hospital windows. The need for caffeine beckoned her to the frankly atrocious cafeteria coffee shop. She almost considered trudging through the corridors of St-Mungo’s toward the Muggle side of Charing Cross Hospital to reward herself with their truthfully superior coffee. However, the still quiet wizarding café was all too appealing. 

Only a few fellow staff members sat across the expansive sitting area, many engrossed in reading their notes, or staring out into space, waiting for their minds to catch up with the day. She spotted Theodore Nott looking decidedly exhausted while he nursed a steaming cup of tea. His wand was perched behind his ear, and a quill scribbled notes along the page of his worn notebook. Pansy Parkinson appeared next to him, unusually prominent circles lay below her eyes, her cheeks looked a little more hollow. Her and Theodore both sported all the signs of people who had worried. People who had been afraid they had lost a friend, a loved one, when they already had so little left to lose. She was pulled from her thoughts by a soft and reassuring squeeze of her shoulder. She did not need to turn around to know who it was, the shape and feel of his hands was memorized from their decade of friendship. 

“You left quickly this morning,” came Ron’s voice as he handed her a cup of coffee with a touch of cream and a teaspoon of sugar. He knew exactly how she liked it. “Is everything alright?” 

“Yes. Daphne woke up,” she smiled back at him, the gesture not quite reaching her eyes. Yet she was grateful for his presence. “I came as quickly as I could. I’m sorry if I woke you up.” In all honesty, she was not sorry to have woken him. “I didn’t realize you were coming in to see patients today.” 

“My patellar dislocation patient was being difficult,” he shrugged. In a very un-Ron Weasley fashion, seeming largely unbothered by the fact he had to show up early. He had spent the most part of their training years complaining about the early mornings. 

“I thought the whole point of finally being done with our training was that we could enjoy a Sunday morning lie in?” Hermione tried to jest, returning the words he had once spoken to her. 

“Well, who would have thought Resident Healers were  _ this _ awful? We were certainly  _ much  _ better,” he retorted, the tell-tale twinkle of impending laughter in his eyes. 

They both burst into fits of laughter as they sat down at one of the clinically polished cafeteria tables. The laughter stemming partially from relief on Hermione’s end, and partially from the comfort they found in each other. Her fear of complacency in her relationship with Ron struck her again, and she could almost see the mirrored look of anticipation in Ron’s eyes. 

“You’re going to finally say it aren’t you?” He asked her in a moment so incredibly vulnerable that it took Hermione by surprise. 

“Yes… I… uh… I thought it could wait… until Daphne got better. And now she is, but I’m not sure how to say it. I’m not sure if I want to say it. Certainly not in this awfully dreary cafeteria.” 

“Better here than mid-fuck like you tried to do last night,” his crassness had long stopped bothering Hermione. She appreciated the moment of open and unashamed honesty. “Would you like me to start?” He added. 

“No… no… I want to do it. It’s only fair. I… don’t want to make you say it, but you know. You know this,  _ us _ , it isn’t working out?” 

“I know,” he bowed his head, looking down into his hands fiddling with the badge on his healer robes. “We tried right?” He asked so quietly it sounded like it was almost meant for himself. 

“We tried,” Hermione confirmed, smiling bittersweetly. Her hand reached out to grasp onto Ron’s soothingly. He looked up at her and nostalgia bore deeply into his eyes. They took a moment of silence, for themselves, and for each other. 

“I can move my stuff out this afternoon. It’ll all be gone by tonight, I promise,” his hands gripped her fingers again as he spoke, returning the comforting gesture she had originally extended to him. 

“You don’t have to. Stay as long as you need, until we figure everything out.” 

“I know I don’t have to, but I think I want to. I don’t want to live in the memory of us. I don’t think I could move on like that. Let’s make this a clean break,” he promised her, no malice, or anger in his voice. Only a twinge of pain, and a dash of nostalgia for a relationship that shaped much of their adult life. 

Hermione never imagined that the comfort of complacency would be so difficult to overcome. 


	3. Continuation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: discussions of overdose, discussions of drug addiction

**_Week 2_ **

* * *

_Continuation_

_1: the act or fact of continuing in or the prolongation of a state or activity_

_2: resumption after an interruption_

_3: Something that continues, increases, or adds._

* * *

**_Monday, November 8, 2004_ **

Hermione witnessed the finality of a six year-long relationship in the forty-fives minutes Ron required to charm his belongings into a few worn suitcases. Six years worth of birthdays, anniversaries, memories both cherished and feared, Christmas days, and New Years Eves neatly packed up. They had been quiet in their separation, fearful of misplaced words, or overwrought emotions. They lingered for one final kiss in their comically small kitchen, the distant memories of early mornings or Sunday breakfast lingering around them. 

The emptiness of their flat following Ron’s apparition to Harry’s currently empty home felt heavy, but also free. Free to make it a place of her own, symbolic of the next steps in her life, which had, to this point, been shaped by her work and childhood relationships. The week following his departure stretched on as Hermione balanced the dichotomy of residual memories and emotions for a man she once loved, and her hope for the future - the openness of opportunities. 

Hermione and Ron danced around each other at work, carefully avoiding the other’s presence in the hopes that lingering feelings would not be drawn out. The distance wrenched between them almost hurt before she placed herself in Ron’s shoes, feeling likely even more adrift that she was. With Harry in the field, Hermione tried not to think of Ron sitting alone in an unfamiliar flat, heaved from the comfort of a six-year old familiar routine. 

Visits to Daphne’s room became a staple of her morning and evening routine, an effort to distract herself from her still heavy heart. She threw herself into Daphne’s care and recovery, to an almost unbearable degree for the blonde witch inching closer to her inevitable discharge. 

A week after Daphne awoke, Hermione’s routine had barely strayed from day to day. She found comfort in the routine, in the familiar faces that would greet her along her morning rounds. Dean Thomas and Anthony Goldstein could always be expected to be found smiling up at her - both messily scribbling along patient charts and idly chatting about Quidditch standings - while she strode out of the staff apparition point, and through the Emergency Room. 

She could also always expect to find Luna along her way, quietly muttering to herself, a few too many quills tucked behind her ears. She could always count on her friends, her people, her co-workers to be alright, until Daphne was found half-dead in the expanse of her childhood home. 

Hermione was struck once more with a feeling of powerlessness, and everyday Daphne remained in St-Mungo’s care, one more day she could guarantee her safety. But as the previous week drew to a close, and the chilly November air made itself more known, she knew her barely-mustered control had to be relinquished. 

When she arrived in Daphne's room, Hermione found Pansy Parkinson now sat in the visitor’s chair closely tucked and angled toward Daphne’s bed.. Her short jet black hair was held back by a few pins, and her immaculately green healer robe draped carefully across her shoulders. She spoke in hushed tones with Daphne, while stroking a kind hand across her forearm. It was a jarring sight for Hermione, who had only ever seen Pansy’s closed off, and snobbish expression. A permanent air of superiority plastered across her face, head jutting out arrogantly. 

“Parkinson,” Hermione nodded, maintaining a modicum of respect for her colleague despite their historically strenuous relationship. They rarely encountered each other in the halls of St-Mungo’s, and neither would complain about this. 

“Granger. Why wasn’t I consulted for Daphne Greengrass’ recovery plan? I see in her chart that you’ve involved Healer Weasley. Of all people,” Pansy spoke, eyes cool, and mouth pursed in distaste at the mention of a Weasley. 

“You know it’s a conflict of interest to be involved in her care, Parkinson.” Hermione spoke carefully, attempting to avoid an altercation with the increasingly agitated witch. She did not want to be involved in another painfully verbose row with Pansy Parkinson. Their careful avoidance of each other intrinsically linked to the precipice of unchained distaste they teetered on. 

“Then tell me why you were involved. Or are you above the rules?” 

“I’m not above anything. I was the only Cardiothoracic Healer on call that night. Besides, Percy Weasley has far more experience in this field than you do.” Hermione saw Pansy visibly flinch at Percy’s name. The rivalry between the two Mind Healers easily surpassed their own. 

“ _Does_ he now? I could wager anything that you think all I spend my days doing is giving marital advice to pureblood wives about their cantankerous husbands,” Pansy stood, attempting to use the few centimeters of height she had over Hermione. The smaller witch did not relent, rather stepping forward and around toward Daphne, who looked deeply uncomfortable witnessing the interaction. 

“You could be instructing pygmy puffs on how to find love for all I care. It was decided that Healer Weasley would be in charge of Daphne’s recovery plan. I’m certain Percy would be amenable to discussing treatment plans with you if--” 

“If what?” Percy interrupted while confidently entering the patient room, a forest green chart tucked under his arm to match his equally green Mind Healer rober. 

His horn-rimmed glasses were perched low on his nose as he glanced down to his notes. If one looked closely, you could notice that Percy had grown into his looks quite significantly, reminding Hermione of a much more uptight Bill Weasley. She shuddered unpleasantly at the thought that always seemed to surface when in the presence of the Mind Healer. 

“We were discussing Healer Greengrass’ care plan,” clarified Hermione who noticed Daphne being pulled out of the reverie she had sunk into at the mention of her name. 

“Based on the tense atmosphere I walked into, I gather there were some disagreements,” asked Percy, hardly looking up from his notes again, only doing so once to give a sympathetic look to Daphne. 

Pansy scoffed and rolled her eyes, and Hermione simply nodded in response. 

“Well, next time,” Percy spoke again. “I would like for the both of you to take your disagreements outside patient rooms. I really don’t stand for unprofessional petty bickering,” his tone was flat, but the words cut through Hermione who never enjoyed being chastised, much less from someone she had known since childhood, and did not particularly like. 

Regardless, Hermione nodded again, briefly apologising for her misstep, before addressing Daphne. 

“I’m clearing you Daphne. I can confirm no long-lasting damage to your heart or cardiovascular system,” she had been dreading these words, but knew they were now inevitable. She turned to Percy. “Healer Willoughby from neuro cleared her as well.” 

“Right,” Percy nodded. “Thank you, Hermione. I’d like to take some time to discuss things with Healer Greengrass.” 

Hermione understood that as the moment to take her leave, gently gripped Daphne’s wrist, while she turned on her heel to continue her morning rounds. Pansy, however, stood steadfast, unwilling to move. 

“Healer Weasley --” she nearly spat, but the remainder of her sentence was cut short by Percy’s curt response. 

“Get out Parkinson. Don’t make me repeat myself.” 

Pansy opened her mouth preparing to respond, but quickly shut it again before storming out of the patient room, forcefully pushing past Hermione who could have sworn she heard a quietly whispered _fuck off_ from Pansy. 

* * *

**_Wednesday, November 10, 2004_ **

Percy had recommended Daphne’s participation in a month-long rehabilitation programme, and she had heard of a begrudging agreement on Pansy’s end. Hermione’s weeks continued to be filled with the same routine. A morning greeting to Dean and Anthony, a curious glimpse of Luna, followed by her typical rounds, rounded out by a quick visit to Daphne’s room, meant to update her on hospital happenings and monitor her release until the end of the week. 

Occasionally, she would glimpse a shock of red-hair in the distance indicating the presence of a Weasley, and she would find herself tucked along the walls of an adjacent halfway, or supply closet. Hoping not to come across Ron. 

A trauma during that night had called her into the emergency room to consult on a patient with a punctured lung, and she found herself once more trudging the halls of St-Mungo’s before the first lights of day filtered through the windows. 

“You look awful,” spoke Daphne, perched cross-legged on her bed, her back resting on a mountain of pillows Hermione knew she bribed the Medi-Witches for. 

“I’m fine. Honestly. It’s just been a busy week,” Hermione attempted to answer sincerely. 

“You’re still avoiding Weasley, aren’t you?” Daphne asked pointedly, one blonde eyebrow quirking up. The topic of her breakup with Ron did not even need to be mentioned in their daily hospital briefings. She knew it had been talked about by nearly every member of the staff. 

“You’ll have to be more specific as to which one,” she tried her hand at humour, and found her light tone failing her. 

“Don’t--” 

“Fine, yes. I’m still avoiding Ron. I just… don’t know what to tell him, and he looks so… sad? And I feel terribly guilty, because, sure, I feel some nostalgia. But, if anything, I am _relieved._ ” 

Before Daphne could provide Hermione with an answer, or, hopefully some advice, her eyes trailed toward the door of her room. Hermione followed her gaze and found the particularly unpleasant form of Draco Malfoy, flanked by an amused-looking Theodore Nott, standing in the doorway, taking up almost the entirety of the frame. 

“Granger,” he greeted. “Unpleasant to see you, as usual,” he smirked. 

“Likewise, Malfoy. How is the nose job business?” 

“Lucrative, as per usual,” he deadpanned without even sneaking a second glance toward her. She could hear Theodore snicker in the doorway, the sound reminiscent of their Hogwarts days. He always seemed to sport unusually dark circles under his eyes, and today was no exception. 

Theodore winked at her, before he took a deliberately large gulp from his hospital mug. His eyes immediately softened when he turned to Daphne. 

“I brought you some clothes from your flat. Cleaned up a bit too,” Theodore spoke, while holding up a black travel bag that Hermione just noticed. 

“Thanks Theo,” Daphne answered, while Theodore stepped into the room, past Malfoy, to gently deposit the bag on the table near Daphne. In that moment, he reminded her of Harry, they had the same green eyes, armed with a surprisingly soft glint, and eternally messy hair. 

“I have the day off on Friday,” it was Malfoy’s turn to speak. “Pansy asked me if I could take you to the centre,” his words were calculated and controlled, carefully holding back any potential emotion. 

Daphne seemed to appreciate the clinical nature of the words that held so much more meaning that a simple travel arrangement. 

“Right, okay,” came her unusually subdued answer, so far from her usually boisterous personality. Hermione had always wondered how someone so small could take up so much space, but, in that moment, she was struck with how little place Daphne took. 

Silence hung heavily across the room. 

“It will require a car. The centre is placed under protective enchantments. Apparition is not permitted. The floo is only connected to the St-Mungo’s too,” it was almost reflectual for Hermione to list off information on places she knew. It was instinct, but she saw a hint of discomfort flare across Daphne’s eyes simultaneous to the sudden bubbling of anger on Malfoy’s behalf. 

“I didn’t know there was a copy of _Addiction Rehabilitation Centre: A History_ ,” his nostrils flared, and his grey eyes cooled. “I didn’t know our _friend’s_ drug addiction and overdose was a fun little project for you _Granger_.” 

No one, outside of Percy Weasley, had thrown the word _addiction_ yet, and certainly no one had thrown the word _overdose_. She saw Theodore visibly flinch at each word, and Daphne further recoil into the hospital cushions that adorned her bed, 

Heavy silence had drifted toward discomfort and heavy tension. 

“It’s not a project _Malfoy_. Daphne happens to be my friend as well--” 

“Daphne happens to be _right here_ ,” came Daphne’s raised voice, her eyes slightly glossy with tears. “I’m right here, and none of you seem to remotely care about this. I’ve spent almost two weeks witnessing people argue over me like I don’t fucking exist. Like I’m a fucking child or crippled by potions that I can’t fucking stop thinking about. So please, all of you, either _shut up_ , or _leave_.” 

The men stood in silence, mouth agape for a moment before she saw Theodore softly brush one of Daphne’s blonde curls behind her ear. Hermione was always stricken by the Slytherins’ moments of affection, still learning to unlearn her perception of a house she was so intensely conditioned to despise. 

“I have some patients to get to, Greengrass,” Theodore nearly whispered. “I’ll come by later,” and with a nod he quickly left. Malfoy shortly followed suit, after gently squeezing Daphne’s knee. 

Both women remained in silence for a few more seconds, before Hermione spoke again. 

“The touching…” She began. “It’s a little jarring,” she admitted. 

Daphne shrugged, her cheeks warming a little, now slightly tinted red. “The war was hard, we had to stick to each other. Old habits, they’re difficult to kick.” 

* * *

The paperwork releasing Daphne was short and required only a few signatures on Hermione’s behalf, before the discharge forms were handed to Daphne. The air in her hospital room was permeated with a disconcerting edge, reflecting the discomfort of the handful of Slytherins and Hermione who stood idly while Percy Weasley went over her course of treatment. 

Four weeks in a rehabilitation facility, after which she was mandated to attend weekly counselling sessions with him, until he cleared her for healing. She would have limited contact with the outside world during her stay, only the post on Sundays, reminiscent of their days at Hogwarts. 

It felt wrong, almost, to send her away. She could see it and sense it in everyone’s eyes. Pansy Parkinson stood grey-faced near Daphne, clutching her fingers tightly. Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini leaned against the wall adjacent to the door, both very deeply entranced in their thoughts. Draco stood the furthest. In a corner behind Hermione, the only one not wearing his Healer robes, and rather simple grey trousers and a white oxford shirt. He looked sullen, and his features hardened when he noticed Hermione’s gaze on him. 

The morning passed in silence. Hermione was pulled into a tight hug by Daphne, both gripping each other in promise for a brighter return, a safer return, one hopefully with less lingering demons. She did not stay once they had bid their farewell, understanding that Daphne may have preferred more intimacy with her old housemates. 

Hermione scurried along the corridors that afternoon, mindlessly tending to her patients and carrying light conversations with other Healers, and Medi-Witches and Wizards, while she waited for the day to pass. Each procedure on her schedule acted as a reprieve from her painful reminiscing about the war, inevitably triggered by her powerlessness in the face of Daphne’s condition. 

A small moment of happiness came to her in the form of a fox terrier patronus, bursting into her office in a jet of blue light. Ron’s distinctly soothing voice, beaming from the small dog. 

_Harry’s back! Meet at the leaky when you’re done._

Hermione jumped to her feet, and tidied up her desk with the help of a few charms before bolting through her shared office door. 

“Done for the day, Healer Granger?” came Rose Zeller’s enthusiastically questioning voice, while leaning against the Medi-Witch station across the hall, a few charts scattered around her. 

Hermione couldn’t fend off her own smile. “Yes, Healer Zeller. You’re in charge of my post-ops. Buzz me if someone is dying,” she called already sprinting through the hallway toward the magically enhanced elevators, heading toward the apparition point. 

She hardly remembered any detail from her almost maddening sprint from her office when she landed in the Leaky Cauldron. Harry and Ron easily spotted from across the bar. She lunged toward them and embraced Harry tightly. 

“We’ve missed you, you know?” She laughed. “You’ve been on assignment for ages.” 

“Trust me, the next time they suggest to send a Healer undercover, I’ll volunteer Johnson on my behalf. I’m never doing this again,” Harry laughed, a hint of seriousness in his voice. “The paperwork alone was ungodly.” 

Hermione rolled her eyes at him, but couldn’t help a laugh from escaping her lips. That is when she noticed Ron, who had, to the best of his ability and frame, attempted to make himself small in the corner of the booth at her appearance. 

“Ronald,” she greeted, unsure about the tone of voice to employ. She felt the discomfort suddenly grasping onto the air around them. She shook her head quickly, mostly for herself, before speaking again. “I’m sorry, _Ron_. It doesn’t have to be awkward,” she assured them both. 

“Right… er… yeah… I heard...” Harry began, absently running a hand through his hair, glancing both at Ron and Hermione. 

“I’m okay if you’re okay ‘Mione,” came Ron’s good-natured response, and suddenly Hermione felt a warmth take hold in her chest. She understood this moment as it was, a moment of acceptance. 

“I’m okay,” she smiled, and reached out both her hands towards their own, grasping tightly in a rare moment of physical affection between the three of them. 

When the night ended and she apparated home, she understood that the emptiness she felt in Ron’s absence, the helplessness she felt in the face of Daphne, her trauma, their trauma, was simply a continuation of the war they never fully escaped.


End file.
